Divine as Paint and Cardboard
by adele4
Summary: Thief King Bakura x Ryou Bakura, set before the memory game. The Thief King adores his creator.


AN: This takes place before the AE-arc RPG; but TK Bakura already has his cool coat anyway, because Ryou drew him that way, and considering how muddled things are what with the RPG kind of being in the past and the present at once, I don't feel that much obligation for respecting the timeline completely, and I really like that coat!  
And while I'm already on the subject of clothes, in the manga, Ryou plays a characters called the "white magician" in the group's first game against the ring spirit (which is also an RPG, not a card game), so that's what I'm alluding to in that part.

Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh, I'm just borrowing the characters for fun, not profit.

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Divine as Paint and Cardboard

The host walked in soft and quiet steps, not like someone who has learnt to make no sound to remain undetected, but like someone who had grown up with the floor of his home the ceiling for the people beneath him, and had taken seriously all the lessons on polite behaviour he'd been given, to the point of internalising them. It was easy to miss him when you weren't paying attention, and impossible if you were. He always heard the host come, and as always, he went to meet him.

The host stopped when he saw him emerge from the ruins of Kul Elna, and gave an unsure smile, before continuing to come closer. He wore delicate sandals like he had rarely seen them even in the rich tombs he robbed, and he knew that his feet had stayed incredibly soft.

The host mouthed a quiet "hello" when he reached him; he was, as always, dressed in long with robes, and a hood with a red cross on it: it was a magician's attire, though the character the host had made himself had lost its power in a past confrontation with his future self.

They looked at each other for a moment in equal wonder, and then he started the ritual: gently, he took both of the host's hands in his and kissed each palm reverently; on the right one, he lingered longer, darting out his tongue between his teeth: the host squirmed slightly, but that was just because he was ticklish, so he paid it no mind, closed his eyes and breathed in the host's odd, particular scent. These hands had made him, recreated him.

Then, slowly, more sensually, he took one of the host's fingers in his mouth and sucked. The host locked his eyes with his, bit his lips.

It was strange, he thought. Had he met the host on the street, he would never have noticed him, white hair and all. But the ring had chosen him: for the time and resources he had at his disposition, for his skilled hands and devotion to his constructions – and more than that. The artist's talent lays in the eye, not the hands, and somehow, this one had been able to imagine and draw him with the descriptions and imperfect recollections he was given.

Timidly, the host raised his other hand to his face: he was just as puzzled by his creation as he was by his creator, and, when he didn't draw back, the host lightly traced over his face with his fingers, as if wondering how his image could have gained such life. He smiled, and curled his tongue around the finger in his mouth. The host's hand drifted down from his face, forceless, but without ever breaking contact, over his neck to his bare chest, where his fingers curled faintly.

He drew an arm around the host and pulled him close, while with his other hand he casually caressed through the soft hair, and threw off the hood in the process: it hit the ground with a very soft thud, and he let go of the hands that made him to kiss the host's lips instead. The host's right hand, still damp from his saliva, came to rest on his shoulder, under the red coat, clinging with a faint tint of possessiveness. The host's eyes were closed now, abandoning himself to sensation, but though he hadn't seen him cry, he wasn't sure if the trace of saltiness he tasted as he kissed his face was from sweat or tears.

There was very little bare skin exposed by the costume the host had chosen for himself, but he enjoyed caressing over the thin fabric, remembering the shape of his body, familiar in all its details. In a way, the host had created this appearance for himself as well, but he had only needed something to project himself into this world: any sketch would have been enough, while he, he had been resurrected through the host's painting.

Slowly, carefully, he made a few steps backwards. The host followed, stumbling slightly, eyes still closed. It was difficult, walking like this, but they had time: beyond, the hours ticked away more slowly, and in here, the sun would stand still for them if so they wished. Somewhere along the way, the host lost his sandals, the muddy earth of the dead village gentler to his feet than the hot desert sand, and they kept walking until they reached one of the old houses, ghostly in its nakedness and with its hollow windows and traces of ash around it, but the host smiled even as he shuddered in his arms as they passed the door.

x

Hours later (insofar as time had any meaning it this world, but he was too used to being attentive to his surroundings to fully accept the unreality of these ones), the host was laying next to him, naked, on the rug that served as their bed, breathing evenly but awake. He looked at him, leaning on one elbow, wearing nothing but the long coat draped around his shoulders, with the pieces of the host's costume scattered all around them in the otherwise empty room.

After a while of just watching him, he leant over him and gently breathed onto both of his closed eyelids. The host opened his eyes and looked up at him with a friendly, slightly silly smile.

"Do you still regret it?" he asked.

The host's smile immediately disappeared, and his eyes clouded, darkly. He went to caress the hollow under his neck in reassurance, but he didn't regret the question.

The host pushed his hand away and briskly sat up; he didn't move as the host drew his knees close, and, remaining as he was, he could only watch his back.

"_He_ told me he was grateful I had released him too, and that he would repay me."

He said nothing, waiting for the host to continue; he knew very little about his future self, had no idea how far he had mingled with the dark god he had released, but that didn't bother him: he would find out, in the future. The host always sounded bitter when he spoke of him.

Realising he wasn't going to answer, the host turned his head to him and added, in the same bitter voice:

"Why do you _care_?"

He shook his head, and sat up as well.

"You think I've been lying to you," he realised. "I haven't. I am grateful." He couldn't help reaching out to caress down the other's thin arm; the host let him. "You made this world. And me."

The host stared.

"I... I don't know," he eventually said, probably in answer of his earlier question; he drew his arms around his body, and rested his head on his knees. There was a silence. "I wish you wouldn't – "

"I know," he interrupted. He wanted to pull him back down so he could look down at his face again, but the host usually responded badly to the slightest display of violence when he was in such a state as now, so he settled for skidding closer and burying his face in the host's hair. He could feel the host's breath quicken.

"You're pretending I'm some kind of divinity," he said, and he was sounding annoyed or even angry now; he smiled against the back of the host's neck: he knew about gods. They were mortals whose decaying corpse you unburied and exposed to destroy their afterlife, cruel powerful creatures like the monsters within humans, or living fury you drew from the confines of the earth like puppets on a string, to unleash them on the world. "But you're just using me."

"Yes," he said, and because the host being angry meant he was less likely to be skittish, took advantage of the moment to push him down unto his back again and flipped around onto his stomach, raising his upper body to look at his face.

"And you don't listen to me," the host went on, staring up at him with wide brown eyes.

He didn't answer, kissed him gently, faintly nibbled at his lower lip and darted his tongue inside, playing catch with the host's tongue for a few moments, before pulling back to say:

"So you still do regret making..." He didn't need to finish the phrase.

The host avoided his eyes.

"That's not the same, even if I do," he protested, but without much energy, clearly not wanting to argue, and raised both arms to pull his head close and press their lips together with uncustomary force, as if he needed to make sure he was really here.

Outside, faint breezes blew over the ground silently, ghosts of ghosts, the angry spirits of Kul Elna waiting for the players' memory to truly bring them to life; and above them, in the unreal sky of the handcrafted world, Ra halted in his journey for them.

_Fin__._

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AN: You know what's really cool about het? _Pronouns don't get so freaking confusing!_ I think I did okay, considering, but it's sometimes hard to judge for yourself how clear your own writing is, since you always know what you meant. Also, I liked the idea of the Thief King calling Ryou "the host", but maybe everyone else finds it really jarring after two times...?


End file.
